Grumblr's Rumblings

Follow Up to Last Post

Can someone photoshop or draw me a graphic depiction of a mosquito vomiting? I feel like that would work well here.

WHAT?!?! A TUMBLR POST?!?!?!

The self-proclaimed “I” sat upon a rock near the river, listening to birdsong and brook-babble. “I am a rock,” he said.

The wind responded, “Noooooooo.”

The self-proclaimed “I” sat upon a stone near a stream, listening to twitter and rush. “I am a reed,” he said.

The water responded, “Shhhhhhhh.”

He picked up his backpack and stood up, a fine specimen of modern engineering: claw-like hands from reading and typing; broad, furry feet; a nose that began with pretensions toward the aquiline, but truly ended up achieving only a tender bulbosity.

This is our hero, or so, we’d like you to believe.

The self-proclaimed “I” began skipping stones, or rather skipping from stone to stone, though it matters little: he progressed down the mountainside at a leisurely pace, empty glass jangling in his bag, and a stomach full of alcohol showing on his face.

“The next step forward is the first step toward the last step you take,” he murmured cryptically, for, I fear our hero is a melancholy, irrational drunk. Let us hope the sun doesn’t set before he makes his way out of this little valley and back to the main road, where an even longer walk home awaits—unless he were to drive drunk, which, we as a lonely narrative voice, mildly but not wholly omniscient, and murmuring as if reminiscent, cannot rightly know that he would; because he didn’t, though that is not the point.

So the self-proclaimed “I” picked his way among stone and soil, rock, river, and root. He gently jogged down the mountainside in a mild stupor, softly mumbling such inanities as, “Seek in the filth and you will find the firmament” and “The ‘O’ that drivels most lies least.”

At a fork in the trail he paused with a sense of unease. Surely, he had come from one of these paths on his way up the hillside this morning, backpack full and submarine sandwich in hand, but he found that descending with a bag full of empties, his context dependent memory failed him. Or, was he just drunk? Again, it doesn’t matter much, that is not the point.

So the self-proclaimed “I” sat down upon a stone once again and began to ponderingly wonder just which way would be less the blunder, when a little noise near his ear startled him.

“I will show you the way, in exchange for a fee,” said a tiny voice.

“I have very little to give, but I’ll give what I may,” said the self-proclaimed “I”.

“I want but little, which I know you have on your person,” the tiny voice replied. All things considered, the deal struck the self-proclaimed “I” as fair, so he agreed to the deal and the two set out from there. The voice, though appearing ethereal—only later would it’s body be known—told our hero to take the path on the left, up and over the hill, down and past the rusty sign, and out to the road again. With glee, they shot up like a dart and before anyone could guess they’d made way to civilization.

“I can never thank you enough, my phantasmic friend” said a slightly sobering self-proclaimed “I”. “What now is the payment that you require,” he asked.

“A toll of blood,” said the buzzing in his ear, and then the self-proclaimed “I” knew a mosquito was near.

“Drink to your fill, my little friend, I owe you my life, though be careful what you wish for.” But it was already too late, for a drunk mosquito suffers a sad, sad fate.

What the shit? I’ve been using twitter today. 

Dawn of a new era, bitches.

#ZonkersMcGonker 

A Post

If we write what we know, but the greatest knowledge we know is that we know nothing, won’t we always be writing about nothing?

I guess that explains: a) Beckett’s concentration on being and nothingness; b) why there aren’t more absurdists (by association or declaration).

Sidenote: I think Beckett and Bukowski both make the grotesque beautiful, or show the beauty of the grotesque, or the disgusting nature of beauty… not sure.

Very different fellows, they were.

Poem

These words stumble

from behind thin, cracked teeth,

their impact mediated through soft tissue and hard bone

driving the thoughts all the way home.

That was a lie.

These words travel 

from underneath cold fingertips,

translated into something gentler

they make their way through your eye

and to your heart.

That was a lie, too.

Poetry is a dead art,

One that was once a wonder

of the modern age,

it struck minds, hearts, and nations

through the marvel of the printed page.

But the bards of the past

have sung their last,

and the poetry that meant so much to me

has been forced into motion:

we have to settle for these words when we can

hiding them under pretentious pretenses

or covering them with instruments,

personae, percussion.

I write this

in free verse,

much like freestyle:

whatever I think

to write

I write,

but,

try with all my might,

it’s still trite,

cliche,

and overwrought;

however,

that is the language

and this is the poem

that I sought.

A Quick Review

I don’t often write non-academic articles these days, but I know of this rapper who just won’t hype himself. So, I decided to write an album review. I’ll admit that I’m not the harshest critic, but there is a lot to like. Review below. Tell your friends, find him on facebook or myspace (if anyone still uses myspace).

“This guy is good from the beginning” might be the most accurately descriptive lines I’ve heard in an album intro. On Cojack’s self-released, debut album, Clear My Mind, he rises above an album cobbled together of beats from a few different producers, in several different styles.

The album features some interesting stylistic throwbacks—a hype intro, and a secret bonus track—but the real sell is the rapper’s cadence. Throughout the album Corey Cahill, the man behind the moniker of Cojack, delivers lines with shockingly steady timing, rhythm, and delivery. All the more impressive is his variation in speed. The first few tracks feature a pretty steady and even-toned delivery, but Cojack changes his tone on “Work” and delivers a passionate paean to the working class, then the album shifts to a thoughtful love song where he delivers moving lyrics in a pop-rap rhythm and voice. His vocal stylings are truly chameleon-like, and they’re held together by an extremely thoughtful use of full rhyme, slant rhyme, and alliteration which emphasize his cadence and rhythm. One of my favorite examples, after a brilliantly creative quote of the opening lines to “Hide Your Love Away”, Cojack spits this: “Lennon said it great / I quoted him to illustrate / I’m still afraid knowing that I’ll never feel the same / but hide any trace behind a fake stoic face / no escape I take this pain in my chest…” Having studied literature for some time now, though I’m still a few years and a dissertation shy of my PhD, I can fully appreciate the poetic quality of these lines.

I have only the best things to say about Cojack’s first full length album, but conspicuously missing from it are tracks featuring his speed of delivery. We are left with a little bit of an idea in tracks like “Hey!”; however, having seen him freestyle and change song tempos live: “Clear My Mind” doesn’t do full justice to this element of his skill set.

The lyrics of the songs leap from contemplative and philosophical, to excited about the everyday, to party or club style tracks about music; but through it all, Cojack shines like a diamond in the rough South side of Chicago. I wish him the best of luck, and will keep listening, because, for an artist who refuses to hype himself: there is an awful lot about Cojack to hype.